In times of peace
by Halo88
Summary: The Brothers Winchester. Renowned for saving people, hunting things: the family business. Now that has evolved… Popping the first and last seals of hell, puppets to the angels, meat suits to all manor of evil, soulless, demon: The family business gone wrong. If only dad could see us now. Set after S10 e04- follows on from the boy's conversation about doing the right thing.


Author's note: This is a different style to my usual writing. I don't usual a) write in first person narrative for Supernatural and b) use a dual narrative. I hope you like it. Angsty/brotherly love seems to be my thing at the moment! My apologies!

In times of peace

I read a poem once, at school. It struck a chord with me, sung to something deep within my bones. Maybe it's because I have always been a soldier, we both have. Fighting enemies, fighting evil, fighting angels, hell, even fighting each other, but it always stuck with me. Now that I am sat in shotgun, back where I belong, I find myself reciting the poem in my head, over and over.

_When the dust of peace has settled on a nation,_

_how will human arms handle the death of weapons?_

For so long the chains of discord heaved at my soul, my fragmented heart driving me forward, towards recovering my essence. My rage, my pain and my dedication drove me to my protector; it never gets easier, losing him. I have watched him die a hundred times at least, but every time the devastation destroys me. This time, I fear that it has completely turned me, I bent so many of the main rules, I don't think I know what is right or wrong any more. And now that I have reclaimed my prize, now that the dust of peace has settled in _my _heart, how will I handle it now that I do not have to fight to get him back? Can I ever stop fighting? What will happen the next time we die, we turn or we are cursed? How far will we go? Because I know one thing: I'd do it all over again, ten fold, just to get him back.

He is there, an arm's reach away, and I have to fight myself not to reach across, pull him in my arms and never let him go. Absorb him into myself, and carry him in my heart, where he belongs. The things I have done would make a demon blush, damn; they have made them downright _afraid _of me and it paid off because he is there, with his infuriating, off key singing and loving caresses for his baby. And yet, my body still shakes with anticipation, with the flames of passion burning deep within my soul, prepared to do what it takes to guard my brother, to be _his _protector, _his _saviour. I was on defcon 1 for so long, my sole purpose to find him, to save him, that now I don't know how to exist once again as my brother's counterpart. I don't know how to let go of the fear, the torment and the desolation. My heart is still shattered, whisked away in the storm of my life. Sometimes… sometimes I feel that I am a broken soldier, traumatised by the war, by each battle we fight, no longer human, no longer whole. Wrecked.

Like a spring, tightly coiled and ready to go, I live my days waiting. Waiting. Waiting for the other shoe to drop and for the Mark of Cain to warp my brother, drag his soul back to the darkest depths of existence and for the war to continue to rage.

And so, in times of peace, I am not _at peace_, I am merely sat in wait for the next battle. Waiting for the next time I loose my brother, for my already battered heart to harden, to cease to be human, as I slither deeper into the depths of cruelty, desperation and depravity to bring my brother back to me. Again. And again. And again.

So I remember this poem, sat next to my fragile, burdened brother and wonder whether I will ever learn to not be the soldier any more. I wonder whether either of us can ever erase the hurt, a destructive force intent on smothering, strangling and severing all cords to humanity and amity within us. Is he really ready to hunt again?

Can we ever get back to doing the right thing for once? Dean wants so frantically to do the right thing, obliterate the past, his actions and probably mine, that I don't know if it's even possible. I did what I _had _to do to find him. I will always find him; I will always save him. Regardless of the price. _That _is what makes me think I can never do the right thing. Maybe Dean thinks that about me too…who knows.

I have him back; he is with me, for now. But in times of peace, I am not at peace. And it crushes me until I can't breathe, I cannot loose him again. I won't.

A better version of us: stronger than I was

"What if you're not ready?" The words have haunted me since he uttered them. It lingers in his eyes when he glances at me with such sorrow, and excruciating, all consuming concern. Waiting for me to disappear in the blink of an eye, abandoning him once again.

I always used to think that the world was going to destroy me; I thought that in our line of work, we would go down at the hands of some evil son of a bitch. I never considered the idea that we would be the ones to destroy the world. The Brothers Winchester. Renowned for saving people, hunting things: the family business. Now that has evolved… Popping the first and last seals of hell, puppets to the angels, meat suits to all manor of evil, soulless, demon: The family business gone wrong. If only dad could see us now.

I love my brother. This is an undisputable fact, as unchangeable as the sands of time. I took my role seriously when dad placed the delicate bundle in my arms all of those years ago and I will until the day that I die a true and final death. If that ever happens. Sometimes I think our love destroys. We are targets to all, our love and dedication is a beacon for all to abuse. Look at Sammy now; look at the lengths he has gone to, to protect me. He should have buried my demonic arse and saved us all from this. Protect: to keep safe from harm or injury; a key word in the Winchester vernacular. Once. Now? It is synonymous to pain, death and sacrifice.

Somewhere along the line I failed Sammy, my inability to let him go, to loose him, has fostered this dangerous response from him. So willing to surrender his soul and pure quintessence to save me, forgetting every rule we have ever created. His adoration and allegiance to me needs to be repaid; I need to save _us_, return us to our true calling and help us _both _do the right thing. I can't wrap him up in cotton wool and hide him away form the malevolent forces of this world, hell bent of corrupting us and using us as pawns. As I did once, when we were kids, cradling him from the harmful, toxic fumes, I need to protect him from the harmful and toxic immoralities. I need to be stronger than I was; I am better with Sammy at my side and he with me at his. I meant what I said; I _can't_ stew in this crap anymore. I need us to be together, I need _him_ to make me stronger than I was. We will be at peace; we will not be consumed by the hate of this world. We _will _be better. My heart can't handle anything else, any other version; we will be a better version of us.

The End.

_That finger - index to be exact -  
>so used to a trigger's warmth<br>how will it begin to deal with skin  
>that threatens only to embrace?<em>

_Those feet, so at home in heavy boots  
>and stepping over bodies -<br>how will they cope with a bubble bath  
>when foam is all there is for ambush?<em>

_And what of hearts in times of peace?  
>Will war-worn hearts grow sluggish<br>like Valentine roses wilting  
>without the adrenalin of a bullet's blood-rush?<em>

_When the dust of peace has settled on a nation,  
>how will human arms handle the death of weapons?<br>And what of ears, are ears so tuned to sirens  
>that the closing of wings causes a tremor?<em>

_As for eyes, are eyes ready for the soft dance  
>of a butterfly's bootless invasion?<em>

By John Agard


End file.
